


about hate

by courfeyrockets



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-09
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-07-14 02:47:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7149566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/courfeyrockets/pseuds/courfeyrockets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Class president?” He zones back in to the discussion at that moment. </p><p>“Yes you know, president,” Enjolras drawls out slowly as if Grantaire doesn’t understand the word or its definition, “the executive in a republic type of governing system.”</p><p>“Why are you like this?” He squints.</p><p>(or where enjolras runs for class president and grantaire very aggressively doesn't care- until he does)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. charades and twister and scattergories

There’s something about losing. Well, there’s a lot of things about losing, but something in particular when it comes to losing to Enjolras.

Grantaire would never consider himself a sore sport, mainly due to the fact that ninety-nine percent of the time he doesn’t give a shit. It’s more of an outlook on life than anything, a who cares kind of attitude that he’s adopted since as long as he can remember. His therapist says it has something to do with his low self-esteem and self-deprecating nature, but he’s got a hunch she only says that just so he’ll have to pay for more sessions and get to the “root of the issue”.

The issue though is that he really doesn’t care, except when he does- which brings him back to his first point.

He thinks of his first point idly while doodling caricatures on the side of incomplete homework.

At the words “Pass it to the front of your row,” Enjolras’ hand reaches back from his desk in front of Grantaire, beckoning for the work wordlessly without turning around. After a few seconds of Grantaire making no signs of moving, he begrudgingly turns and looks on expectantly.

Grantaire eyes him, “Seriously it’s like the twentieth time I’ve not done my homework,” he shakes his head and lays a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder, “It’s just not going to happen.” He continues after a pause and after Enjolras is still looking at him as if he’s the least impressive thing to ever set foot on earth (he imagines this is the face Enjolras gives the TV whenever Donald Trump comes on), “Looks like you’ll just have to find another reason to stare at me during class.”

That gets him to huff and roll his eyes, turning back around to notes neatly laid out on his desk.

Grantaire considers it a win. It’s the little victories that count after all.

 

 

“Hey you’re still going with me to get my nose pierced today, right?” Éponine asks handing over her chocolate pudding. He pulls the rapper off and scrunches his face apologetically. He’d rather be doing shady deals in an alley on the Southside (and knowing Éponine that’s probably somewhat close to how her piercing is going to go down), than any of his plans today.

“That’s today?” He asks sheepishly.

“Yeah, I got my friend Hunter to spot me a deal so it’s only going to be like fifteen bucks.” She moves her fork around, playing with the macaroni on the side of her plate.

“I’ve sort of got something today.”

“Dude this is like the third time you’ve blown me off this month. You never blow me off.” Her tone is light but he can tell in Éponine speak that it’s sort of bothering her.

“Are you seeing someone?” She asks before mentally processing what she’s said and veering into a peal of laughter. After signs that she won’t let up anytime soon he rolls his eyes dramatically.

“Okay I get it, the idea of me being with someone is hilarious. Great.” He snips.

She sobers fairly quickly, sensing something’s up. “Woah, sorry man.” She says defensively.

He concedes- she gave him her chocolate pudding after all, the girl is a modern day saint in his book.

“I’m sorry. It’s just,” he sighs into the pudding cup. His mouth is full with the stuff. It most likely looks very gross, “I’ve got to deal with family game night tonight.”

Éponine pulls a face, “ _Yikes_. Sorry.”

“And Yahtzee,” he lists off, “charades, twister, scattergories.”

She snorts. “Sounds like the worst.”

It is. Family game night was bad enough when it was just the four of them. After his brother went off to college, Grantaire thought he was saved from those days, and he was, until a few months ago due to some big merger between law firms that led to his mom and Enjolras’ dad meeting each other. They hit it off realizing their kids went to the same school and the rest is a rather annoying history. They’ve been having combined game nights every other Wednesday. It’s sort of the whitest thing ever.

The worst part however is dinner. They sit around a dinner table, this night it will be Grantaire’s, and rattle off new exciting things going on in their lives. Enjolras’ parents brag about Enjolras’ latest feat- his new cross country PR, or a speech he gave at some old people’s home about the importance of senior citizens and their impact on the youth of today. Grantaire’s parents aren’t too ready to ramble on about his immaculate 2.7 GPA, but luckily his brother, who’s just due to finish graduate school for engineering, saves them from having to.

He knows exactly how each one of these game nights goes. He’ll suggest they play Pictionary because compared to the others he’s a da Vinci reincarnate. They’ll play it off with some excuse, usually by saying that the directions were too difficult to understand and so they’ll all settle on twister instead. After twister, Grantaire has to put on his best _that’s interesting_ face as his and Enjolras’ mom go on about vacation spots in the winter. Then somehow academics get brought up and he has to compress his overwhelming need to roll his eyes every time he glances at Enjolras and the smug smile that stays plastered to his face. It ends with a family versus family game of charades in which the winner picks what to have for dinner the next night.

“It is. I’ll trade you.” He supplies off handedly.

She shrugs avoiding the comment in its entirety before jumping into a story about how her training at her new job at the mall went. It’s enough of a distraction to keep him from thinking about tonight and biting his nails at the thought of being sat around a group of intellectuals whose sole purpose in life, Grantaire is almost positive, is to make him feel as dumb as possible.

If it is they are doing a great job at it.

Éponine snaps her fingers in front of Grantaire.

“And then he said smoothies were like an art or some shit.” Grantaire repeats back what she just said easily, a zoning out tactic he’d learned in 7th grade English.

By the time the rest of his friend group sits down around the table, he’s already half way through with his lunch. He gives his banana to Enjolras absentmindedly. The kid has always been slut for potassium and anytime Grantaire even thinks about throwing away food, there’s a group discussion about the dangers of being wasteful, and how if only the world combined its resources in a collaborative effort, world hunger would cease to exist.

Grantaire is not in the mood for one of those discussions.

Enjolras takes the banana gratefully. He mumbles a “Thanks,” before jumping in to the latest social injustice he’s sure Enjolras read about on some tumblr blog.

Jehan and Courfeyrac egg Enjolras on with phrases like, “Yas, stay woke Enj” and “the tea is hot”- which Grantaire would normally find very amusing and no doubt join in had he not been distracted with thinking up possible scenarios for how scattergories will go down tonight.

“Class president?” He zones back in to the discussion at that moment.

“Yes you know, president,” Enjolras drawls out slowly as if Grantaire doesn’t understand the word or its definition, “the executive in a republic type of governing system.”

“Why are you like this?” He squints. Combeferre lets a puff of air out through his nose, which he notes somewhere in the back of his mind is the closest he’s ever gotten to making Combeferre laugh.

“Nice, Enjolras- and as always I’m behind you a hundred and fifty percent.” Courfeyrac insists and holds out his hand for a high five.

 _Courfeyrac is the biggest hype man of all time_ , he thinks to himself and apparently out loud.

Courfeyrac smiles bright, “Fuck yeah I am,” He agrees, “Speaking of hype, pep club needs a couple of more cheer-y souls. Any of you closet football fans interested?”

“Go school.” Feuilly says very dully raising a lazy fist in time.

 

 

Grantaire makes it all the way to dinner.

It’s sort of impressive. He’s managed to bite his tongue anytime Enjolras spouts something particularly pretentious or his mother begins going on a rant about how well his older brother is doing at Princeton.

All things considered Grantaire thinks he deserves a medal- a shiny gold one, with a pretty ribbon- but he’s not too picky.

“So boys, anything interesting coming up in school?” Enjolras’ dad asks innocently enough. He likes Enjolras’ dad. He has a blocky face and likes talking about sports, a topic that surprisingly doesn’t get Enjolras up in arms. (“How do you feel about the Saints?” Grantaire had asked when he and Enjolras first started becoming friends- a word he uses very loosely. “Of course I don’t agree with the catholic church’s bias against queer, however, I don’t have a problem with their religious beliefs as a whole.” Imagine Grantaire’s face. They were in sixth grade.)

“Student council elections are soon,” Enjolras beams proudly. Grantaire changes his mind about the whole liking his dad thing- anyone able to produce Enjolras is a sworn enemy in his book.

“Excellent,” Grantaire’s mother smiles toward Enjolras, “I assume you’re running?”

“Yes ma’am” He nods. Grantaire wants to take a knife to his head.

“What about you Grantaire, anything going on?” his father asks expectantly.

Sometimes Grantaire wonders if his dad secretly has a vendetta against him. It seems like it’s his dad’s sworn mission to embarrass him in front of everyone he comes in contact with- and not in the endearing, shows-baby pictures-to-your-significant-other kind of way. The room focuses on him and suddenly it is unbearably stuffy. He looks down at his spaghetti which he’s barely put a dent in.

Finally, he looks up. Enjolras, who’s across the table from Grantaire, looks on innocently as if waiting for an actual answer.

Stupid Enjolras and his stupid perfect GPA, and perfect community service record, and great skin complexion.

Something in him gives- maybe it’s his dad, maybe it’s Enjolras, maybe it’s both mixed in with a bunch of other shit he’s not ready to look into just yet.

Whatever it is, it has him clearing his throat, “Actually, I’m running for student council too.”

To say that everyone looks surprised would be the understatement of the year, and quite possibly the millennium. There’s an exchange of glances around the room. Enjolras’ parents have the decency to at least try and hold their shocked expressions back.

Grantaire’s dad looks at him from the head of the table as if he’s sprouted two heads.

Grantaire’s mother raises her eyebrows, “That’s- I was not aware of that.”

“I wasn’t either.” Enjolras says tightly. He looks very red. Grantaire thinks now would probably be an inappropriate time to laugh.

After dinner, which was unbearably awkward, they play charades. Enjolras’ family wins by a landslide.

Grantaire thinks it probably has something to do with the fact that his parent’s are still eyeing him disbelievingly.

At least the next game night will have pizza.

It’s the little victories that count after all.

 

 

School the next morning is well, school.

He has French first with Cosette, bless her, who doesn’t actively try and start conversations with him in the morning or mind that he sleeps every day.

She gives him a small wave and a warm smile as he walks in only two minutes late.

“Hey,” he greets softly before promptly putting his head down on the desk.

She wakes him when the bell rings. “Have a nice day, R.” She tells him halfway out the door.

He shakes his head in pity thinking of Éponine- the poor soul. They don’t talk about it often or ever really, but Éponine’s been in love with Marius since the second grade. He can see how difficult it must be to actively dislike a person like Cosette, even if said person is dating the one you love.

After French is Chemistry. The teacher, who is an ass, refuses to let him sleep or draw or do anything Grantaire sees as a productive use of his time. Being in the front of the class, he’s forced to stay up through sheer determination and slapping his face every six minutes.

The teacher, Mrs. Blackwell, or Blackhell as she’s more commonly referred to throughout school, drawls on and on about stoichiometry- “The most interesting part of chemistry” she says in a monotone voice that _could_ be sarcasm and really hilarious if it weren’t for the fact that she’s Blackhell. He clings on to the shallow hope that maybe, just maybe, she’s joking.

How he manages to keep his eyes open is beyond him. He really deserves a lot more medals recently.

Eventually the bell rings and he walks to third slowly in what he can only imagine is a scarily accurate mimic of a zombie.

He makes a mental reminder to google search if it’s possible to be bored to literal death.

As he passes the student council booth on his way to class, he recalls the shocked looks on his parent’s faces when he’d announced he was going to run. It makes him come to a stop.

During the great staring session of last night, as Grantaire’s now referring to it in his head as, he’d wanted so badly to point out how just because he chooses not to do anything does not mean that he’s not capable of doing anything.

He takes a quick glance at the steadily emptying hallway before walking up to the booth and snatching a form out from the bin.

 

Third is art with Bahorel, who usually works outside on nice days before coming to sit next to him. Normally he longs for the company (not that he would ever inflate Bahorel’s ego and tell him that), but today it means that he can fill out most of the form without being bothered. It has a bunch of questions about his G.P.A and extracurricular activities. He winces and begins filling in only slightly hyperbolized answers.

The third part of the sheet asks about a teacher recommendation. Grantaire lets out a puff of air. The girl next to him looks up in worry. She’s nice enough. She offers Grantaire sticks of pocky every now and then. Instead of giving her an explanation he stands up and walks over to his art teacher, Ms. Powell.

Ms. Powell is, as far as Grantaire’s concerned, the only teacher worth while at this school. She is also probably one of the only teachers willing to give him high enough marks in categories such as ‘hard working’ and ‘team player’. She smiles as he walks up and he gives her a sheepish wave. “Hi, Ms. Powell. I was wondering if you could fill this out for me.”

“Of course,” Ms. Powell says before she even knows what the form is. She takes the sheet and reads the header smiling. “Good for you, Grantaire. I’ll have this filled out in no time.”

He thanks her before walking back to his seat.

Bahorel is back in his normal seat across from Grantaire when he gets back.

“What was that for?” Bahorel questions lightly head bobbing toward the teacher.

“Nothing.” Grantaire shrugs and looks down at his art work figuring he should probably at least start his work for today. The task this week was perspective. He pulls a face. It’s certainly not the worst thing he’s ever drawn, but the lines look all wonky.

“Whatever man,” Bahorel doesn’t prod any further. He frowns down at his paper, “Hey can you draw me a dragon head?”

Grantaire snorts and scoots the paper toward him. As per usual Grantaire has no idea what Bahorel’s been attempting to make. Bahorel calls it ‘abstract’ – “Of course you don’t get my work R, your taste isn’t refined enough” as he so elegantly put it once before.

“On a scale of one to bad ass, how bad ass do you want it to look?” Grantaire asks in mock seriousness.

“Han Solo,” Bahorel replies equally as serious, “before Lucas said he didn’t shoot first.”

“Obviously.” Grantaire says but breaks character smiling.

He bites his lip and gets to work.

When the bell rings, Grantaire stalls by taking a long time to pack up. Bahorel either doesn’t notice or pretends not to. They exchange goodbyes before Grantaire makes his way back to Ms. Powell’s desk. She shakes her head as if remembering, “Oh yes, this is for you.” And hands the form back. He thanks her quickly and heads toward the door.

“Grantaire,” Mrs. Powell stops him before he can leave.

“Yes ma’am?”

“I’m proud of you.” She says carefully.

Grantaire stutters, “Um, thanks.”

 

 

Fourth he has history with Enjolras, who’d normally pretend he wasn’t there, but today, after last nights’ scandal, looks behind himself every so often to where Grantaire’s seated and glares.

On Enjolras’ third look back, a particularly nasty scowl, Grantaire sighs and looks up from his paper. “Do we have a problem here?”

“Yes.” Enjolras says pointedly with eyes squinted, “Were you serious last night?”

Grantaire pushes his paper aside figuring messing with Enjolras is better than any scholastic work he’s ever been or going to be given. He rests his chin in his hand, “Now am I _ever_ not serious?”

Enjolras tuts. “All the time actually.”

“Seeing as we’re now political opponents, I’m going to elect to ignore that comment.” Grantaire explains diplomatically.

Somewhere in the proverbial planes of existence he can feel Joly high fiving him for the word choice.

The bell rings at that and Grantaire gathers his things.

Enjolras is of course waiting for him by the time he gets to the door.

“Its due today, you know.” Enjolras gloats clutching his backpack straps and walking with Grantaire to where the sign up sheets and turn in folders are situated in front of the cafeteria, “The forms. I’m assuming you don’t have your parent’s signature yet.”

“What do you take me for, Enj?” He gasps, clutching the form to his chest. “Of course I have my parent’s signature.”

He so doesn’t.

He’s been signing things for his parents since the third grade. Enjolras knows this and likely so do all of Grantaire’s teachers. He’s honestly surprised Enjolras would even think of that as a set back.

Enjolras looks ready to say something along the lines of forged signatures not actually being real signatures (he’d politely disagree), before Éponine and Bahorel walk up.

“R, what are you doing?” Éponine asks slowly, staring at him and the sign up sheet in his hands.

Enjolras looks absolutely smitten. He crosses his arms and sneers, “Yeah R, what _are_ you doing?”

Grantaire is going to get so much shit for this. He can already picture Joly humming ‘Hail to the Chief’ loudly and Musichetta standing up in mock salute any time they see him. Bossuet would laugh loudly at the both of them. It would be horrible.

He could still save this he thinks to himself. He and Enjolras know that he could pretend this almost candidacy was a big joke™ and agree to never speak of it again.

Enjolras wouldn’t hold it against him probably.

He wets his lips nervously and chances a glance up.

What he sees proves one of his current working theories: _God is not on his side._

If God were on his side he’d have shown him Éponine’s befuddled expression or Bahorel’s lips which were beginning to twitch into a shit eating grin.

Instead all he sees is Enjolras’ smug face smirking at him.

He hears his inner conscious go, _fuck it_ , before pulling out a pen from his jacket pocket. He clicks the pen with an odd sense of determination, “What’s it look like I’m doing? I’m running for fucking president.”

He leans the form against the wall before signing hastily. It’s a little sloppy but all in all not a bad forgery. If he’s ever in a rut for jobs at least he knows he’ll always have check forging to lean back on.

Grantaire turns back to a furious Enjolras and an even more confused Éponine. They stare as he drops the completed sheet into a small folder labeled ‘11th grade’. It only contains two papers, one of which is his and the other he can safely assume is Enjolras’.

He turns on his heels and walks straight into lunch, ignoring Bahorel’s hearty call of, “Of course this makes me campaign manager, right?”

 

 

Éponine tries getting his attention for the rest of the day. It’s not like he’s been avoiding her, but he’s definitely been avoiding her.

Fortunately for him, they only sit by each other in one class so he manages to get all the way to seventh period relatively unbothered.

Éponine is already staring daggers at him before he even makes it to his seat. He sets his bag down and flops down into his chair. She wastes no time. “What was all of that about?”

“All of what?” He asks innocently pulling out a sheet of notebook paper from his book bag to avoid looking at her.

“Cut the shit,” She says unimpressed, “Since when do you even know what a class president is or does?”

He points a firm finger at her, “I’ll have you know I have always cared about the student body.”

He continues in his best Enjolras impersonation, “This generation has the potential to change the world only if we collectively accept the fact that this world needs changing.” It’s almost a direct quote.

Éponine rolls her eyes, “I don’t know why but I feel like this thing has ulterior motives written all over it.”

Grantaire doesn’t reply because well, she’s right. He just doesn’t feel like explaining why she’s right at the moment. It’s been a long day. He’s potentially just ruined his entire life in the span of eight hours over something he knows is extremely petty, had to deal with Ms. Powell saying she’s proud of him and whatever the fuck she meant by it, and as of last period lost his favorite pen. He thinks he’s mostly worried about the pen. It had a felt tip.

He glances at the board up front. It has a bunch of old math formulas scribbled on to it.

Sighing he stretches before putting his head down.

Éponine is used to him shutting down in mid conversation (he’d done it almost every other day in freshman year). She knows it has less to do with him not wanting to talk to her and more with him not being able to maintain a conversation at that particular point in time.

She sighs, “But if you really ‘care about the student body’ now-,” She repeats using air quotes, “then that’s cool. You’ve got my vote.”

It’s somewhat disturbing how easily she can see through him. Grantaire would like to think of himself as a pretty guarded person, but if anyone is able to see through his bullshit he supposes it’d be Éponine.

Grantaire turns his head slightly so that her face is visible over his jacket.

“Thanks Ep,” He says softly.

Éponine gives him a thumbs up before reaching in her back pack and pulling out a shade of black nail polish. He thinks the color name is ‘emo-punk black’, something close to that, and something he definitely made fun of her for relentlessly when he’d first found out.

The smell as she uncaps it lulls him to sleep.


	2. twilight zone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Just sounds to me like Apollo’s scared of a little competition.” 
> 
> He scoffs at that, “Please I’m going to win.” He says assuredly. And he probably will, Grantaire doesn’t doubt that. 
> 
> “I doubt that.”

“Stop.”

Grantaire lets his eyebrows scrunch in confusion but his eyes stay glued to his phone as he treks down the hallway to lunch. “You’re going to have to be a little bit more specific there, man. Was it the walking, am I breathing too much for you-”

“Shut up,” Enjolras cuts him off midsentence, “you know what I’m talking about. Drop out. Quit. Right now.”

Grantaire smirks choosing the conversation over Doodle Jump as he snaps his phone off and stuffs it into his back pocket, before glancing up at Enjolras, “Now why on earth would I do that?” He asks sweetly.

Enjolras answers before he gets the whole question out. Enjolras has definitely prepared rebuttals before hand and the thought makes Grantaire’s smirk even wider.

“Well for one you’re highly underqualified,” he begins ticking off on his fingers, “you barely even go to class let alone have the skill set to run one” at that Grantaire huffs but he keeps going, “your morals and stances on issues are perpetually ambiguous, _and_ I’m willing to bet you’re only doing this to get under my skin- well guess what Grantaire, it’s not going to work.”

Grantaire doesn’t point out how it is absolutely without a doubt working. Instead, he makes a pouting face that makes Enjolras roll his eyes so hard Grantaire thinks they might pop out. He shrugs lightly, “Just sounds to me like Apollo’s scared of a little competition.”

He scoffs at that, “Please I’m going to win.” He says assuredly. And he probably will, Grantaire doesn’t doubt that. 

“I doubt that,” is all he says before walking away knowing good and well Enjolras will follow.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He questions sternly, trailing behind Grantaire like a lost puppy, “You don’t even have a platform probably, besides like - pizza days every Friday.” He throws out bitingly.

Grantaire comes to a halt and gasps, “That’s a really good idea.” He says to himself pulling out his phone to take note of it.

“My point is you’re not going to win. So just quit.” Enjolras says shaking his head like he’s trying to convince himself of this fact more than Grantaire.

“Dude if you haven’t noticed,” motioning vaguely in the air, “voting shit, class president, homecoming, all of it - it’s just one big popularity contest.”

“Then explain why I’ve won two years running,” Enjolras replies, snide and confident, looking toward Grantaire as if he’s won the argument.

“You’re the only person who ever _runs_.” He sighs exasperated, “No one even votes on it man. You’re like the Fidel Castro of the Junior Class. Someone has to stop you, and it looks like it’s going to have to be me.”

“Oh because you’re so much more popular than me.” He crosses his arms huffing.

Grantaire’s eyebrows raise at that, “Uh, yeah, sort of by a lot?”

Enjolras doesn’t look convinced so he continues, “Oh Enjolras, my sweet, dear, Enjolras,” He says sadly as if breaking especially bad news, “the kids don’t care if you want to reduce carbon emissions and recycle more. Or start fundraisers to save that dilapidated building downtown,” He explains rationally, “- the kids care about charm and let’s face it, minus the hair- which you’ve admittedly got me beat at- I’ve got like the whole package.”

“I heard whole package,” Courfeyrac interrupts, appearing from, as far as Grantaire can tell, nowhere- a Courfeyrac ability Grantaire finds increasingly unnerving. He hooks his arms around both Grantaire and Enjolras’ necks, “Why are you two gossiping about me?”

“Grantaire’s running for student class president,” Enjolras explains with a smile that looks like he’s being held at gunpoint, it’s a bit dramatic if Grantaire’s being honest.

“Woah, that’s awesome buddy,” He beams toward Grantaire. Still in the embrace, Courfeyrac points to him using the arm hooked around Enjolras, “By the way if you ever need a manager, I’m only a call-”

“Courf,” Enjolras’ eyebrows scrunch.

“Okay sheesh, sorry,” He lets go of the two so he can hold up his palms in surrender.

From what Grantaire can tell by the way Courfeyrac’s hands go lax and he gets a dopey look on his face, he must spot Combeferre somewhere along the crowded hallway. Grantaire wonders if that’s another one of his super powers.

“Duty calls boys!” He pats their backs, and then a softer, “Take care of yourselves,” before making his way to bother Combeferre.

He walks backward for a short distance miming a telephone and mouthing ‘we’ll talk later’ to Grantaire before turning around and all but sprinting to catch up to Combeferre.

“So do they date yet, or?” Grantaire asks to no one in particular.

Enjolras snaps his head toward Grantaire. “What do you mean?”

Grantaire gives a placating sigh and pats his back. Enjolras wears the confused expression all the way to lunch.

 

 

 

Home has gotten a lot weirder lately.

For example, today, Grantaire walks in the door at 2:47 - as per usual, sets his backpack on the staircase - as per usual, and makes his way up the stairs - as per usual. Halfway up, his mother comes bustling out the kitchen with oven mitts on.“Taire, sweetie,” She calls out. Grantaire freezes still on the steps.

“Taire, sweetie,” She calls out. Grantaire freezes still on the steps.

There are three things already that make Grantaire feel as if he somehow crossed over into the Twilight Zone while he wasn't paying attention.

For one, his mom is home before he is, an act that he’s sure has only happened once before in his entire high school career.

Two, his mom is wearing oven mitts. To be honest he’s not quite sure if his mother can even cook. Normally they settle on take out and on special occasions (like family game night) his father makes the meals.

Thirdly, his mom is calling him “Taire”, a name that has since been discontinued. He’s not really sure why the nickname went away, he just knows since his brother left no one in the house has called him it.

He was never too fond of the nickname anyway, it always sounded forced and awkward, and hearing it after some years just makes him cringe all the while harder. It takes him a second to gather himself and wipe off the expression on his face before he turns around.

He wants to ask, ‘Why are you home?’ or ‘Why are you calling me Taire?’ or ‘Did dad die or something?’. He decides on, “Yes?”, figuring all the other options are a little dark, and it’d be best not to dampen the good mood, no matter how unsettling it is.

“There are brownies in the oven.” She smiles at him gently. “I know how much you love them.”

Grantaire has never in his life expressed a love for brownies.

He doesn’t think he hides the confused look on his face very well.

“Thank you,” He says slowly.

He’s stuck on the stairs, wondering if that was the end of the God-awful conversation or if she needed something else.

She makes her way from where she was standing in the kitchen doorway to sit on the living room sofa. It's green throw blanket shifts with the new weight. Taking off her mitts she places them on the coffee table before gesturing at Grantaire.

She pats the couch. He reluctantly makes his way to join her. “Come sit, we never talk anymore.”

She’s right.

He thought they did that for good reason.

He doesn’t hate his mom by any means, but she didn’t talk to him and he didn’t talk to her. It was an unspoken mutual agreement. It was a _good_ agreement. It worked.

He flops down, leaving a buffer cushion in between the two and leans his back heavily on the arm rest of the three seater, bracing himself for the bad news that is inevitably coming. Maybe his dad did die.

“So I talked to your principal earlier today.” She leads.

His eyebrows furrow in thought; he hasn’t done anything principal-call-worthy as of recent. Unless they somehow figured out the balloon stunt from last year was him, which he highly doubts because the plan was full proof.

“Did he accuse me of anything?” Grantaire sits up a bit straighter, “Because besides the fact that I one hundred percent did not do whatever it is he said I did, he also has no proof, even if I did do whatever it is he says I did.” He trails.

His mom laughs, which is another abnormal thing to add to the list, “No sweetie, we were talking about how surprising it was that you were running for student council.”

Oh.

“Oh.” He says simply, deflating back into the sofa.

She scoots to his side of the couch and wraps an arm around him. Her cheeks squish against his, “I am so proud of you,” she sing-songs.

It’s officially the new theme song to all of Grantaire’s nightmares.

 

 

 

Joly’s house is a lot cooler than Grantaire’s.

It’s three stories, always has snacks, the bathrooms are always equipped with the foamy soap, and best of all, it lacks Grantaire’s family, which is why whenever they hang out, he makes sure to provide a reasonable excuse as to why it must be at Joly’s.

As the only child, Joly’s room is unnecessarily large.

(His books, which are mostly either Goosebumps or various non-fiction books on different diseases line the back of his room. Posters of pop singers and bands ranging from Cher to One Direction adorn the blue walls while his desktop in the corner of the room on a desk Grantaire has never in his life seen Joly use, collects dust.)

Bossuet’s out of town this weekend and Musichetta’s grounded which means that Grantaire can hang with Joly and have some much-needed bro-time without being the awkward fourth wheel.

Africa by Toto plays as background noise from Grantaire’s laptop. From the floor Joly leans himself back against the edge of the bed and, from what Grantaire can tell, get’s crushed by multiple CPUs in a game of Super Smash bros.

Grantaire, who’d glanced around the room for something to entertain himself, settled on the set of darts and board hanging on Joly’s door.

It’s quiet for a while as Grantaire’s ‘chill’ playlist on Spotify rolls on and Joly’s attention is focused on his TV. After ten minutes of this Grantaire gets antsy. He levels and clears his throat.

“You know, what’s up with everyone being proud of me lately?” He asks with a bad taste in his mouth, “It’s like I invented the cure for cancer or something.”

He throws the darts half-heartedly. They mostly hit the door and bounce off with a dull thud. It only makes Grantaire sulk more.

“Okay well for the record,” Joly states matter-of-factly from the floor, “If you ever invented the cure for cancer, I’d be on my knees sucking your dick.”

“Is this my formal invitation to JBM?” Grantaire stops chucking the darts to glance at him, “Because if so, I humbly accept.”

“Oh you wish, my guy.” Joly laughs to himself and pauses the game. Grantaire’s eyebrows scrunch and he pouts at the dart board, only slightly offended. “Anyway, what’s so bad about everybody being proud of you? Last time I checked that was a good thing.”

“Are you kidding? I _loved_ the disappointment.” He laments and motions to himself for more emphasis, darts still in hand, “I miss the disgust in their eyes, the pity in their words. I thrive in mediocre standards and low expectations already set for me, Joly.”

“Well too bad. I’ll have you know that I am always proud of you, twenty-four seven.” Joly hums, “So, ha!”

“Yes, but everyone can’t be as brilliant and right about everything as you are, Joly,” Grantaire sighs. Joly nods in thoughtful agreement before unpausing the game.

Grantaire goes to retrieve some darts, most of which are scattered across the floor. He walks back to his previous spot and starts flicking them again, more accurately this time, “Like my mom, she’s cool and all I guess but it’s just, it’s like this is the _one_ thing she notices. It’s weird.”

“What if she expects this of you now?” Joly faux gasps.

“I just gagged in my mouth.” Grantaire frowns and contemplates throwing one of the darts at Joly. He knows, however, somehow it’d end up grazing his skin and Grantaire would have to spend ten minutes rummaging through Joly’s room to find some first aid kit and another ten convincing him that he does not need a tetanus shot.

 

 

 

School the next Monday isn’t as bad as far as Mondays go. During the announcements at the beginning of the day, Grantaire manages to stay up long enough to hear his and Enjolras’ name called over the intercom for junior class president nominees. He imagines Enjolras’ face right now in calculus. He’s probably seething. The thought makes Grantaire smile lazily, chin in his hands.

Cosette must mistake it for something else though because she smiles quietly at him as if she knows some kind of secret.

Jacob, Grantaire thinks his name is, reaches from where he’s sitting behind Grantaire to tap him on the shoulder.

Grantaire turns around to the guy. He’s smoked with him on multiple occasions with Éponine on the account of Jacob having an obvious thing for her, meaning they got to bum free pot whenever their stash ran low.

“R! Didn’t know you were running.” He laughs and swats at his arm.

“Oh yeah well, I’ve decided it’s time to represent the people of Blakely High. My first mission, get rid of that _stupid_ no drugs policy.”

Jacob beams at him and bangs a hand on his desk. It makes others turn and look at the two, “Yeah man, definitely. Finally, someone who’s making sense around here.”

He laughs and turns back around, but stops when he sees Cosette eyeing him. She shakes her head disapprovingly from her seat across from him.

He goes for charming, flashing a smile and shrugging, “What? I fight for the middle man.”

The look he gets in return makes him groan, “ _Ugh_ , you’re no fun.”

 

 

 

By the time Grantaire fully realizes Enjolras is ignoring him, it’s fourth period.

(Although he and Enjolras have never been the best of friends, typically, whenever they walk past each other on the way to class they’ll give a head nod to acknowledge one another’s presence. Grantaire had figured Enjolras just didn’t see him or was too busy plotting to overthrow the school board to notice.)

Grantaire has poked him for the third consecutive time in 5 minutes and has still garnered no response of any kind.

It’s infuriating, to say the least.

Where Grantaire usually spends this class period bothering Enjolras, amusing himself with his reactions, and also drawing highly detailed penises in the margin of his notes, he’s now forced to do solely the latter- and as he’s found out recently, there’s only so many detailed ways of drawing a penis.

As Mr. Moore drones on about the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand he starts placing tiny bits of paper in Enjolras’ hair, waiting for him to notice.

Enjolras doesn’t even flinch. He runs his fingers through his hair shaking loose all but one piece of paper before sitting up straight and distancing himself from Grantaire. He does all of this without turning to even glare at Grantaire, a glare he'd like to note, Grantaire receives habitually and even when he’s not trying to be exasperating.

Grantaire lets out a puff of air and calls it.

He knows a lost cause when he sees one.

 

 

 

Enjolras doesn’t walk with him to lunch either, which bugs him a lot more than it actually should. As he sits down at the table, Combeferre, Feuilly, and Courfeyrac are already there, Feuilly mourning his physics grade and lamenting about some quiz.

“It doesn’t make any sense!”

Courfeyrac snorts, “What part?”

“Any,” Feuilly trails and stares hopelessly down at his tuna salad.

Combeferre, who is being unusually quiet for a discussion involving science, sets his eyes on Grantaire as soon as he sits down.

Grantaire pulls out his leftover meatball sub from his paper bag and places it on the table as Combeferre eyes him from across the table. Just as Grantaire’s about to say something along the lines of, ‘Why the hell are you staring at me’, Combeferre speaks up.

 “So R,” He asks coolly, hands folded on top of the lunch table very diplomatically, “what are your campaign strategies?”

Grantaire waits until he’s swallowed most of his bite to pipe up with, “What so you can run off and tell Karl Marx Jr?” He points his sub at him. Meat sauce splashes on the table, “I’m on to you, Combeferre.”

“That means he’s got fuck all,” Éponine joins in as she takes her seat next to Grantaire. He takes a moment to eye the weird scalloped potatoes on Éponine’s tray before she flicks him hard in the arm.

“Hey, not true,” He says over the laughs of the table. He rubs the sting as he shrugs, “I’m just going to wing it, you know. I find I work best when I’m on my toes. Going with the proverbial winds and what not.”

“I just hope this doesn’t get weird.” Joly sighs having joined the table along with Bossuet and Bahorel.

“Hope what doesn’t get weird?” Jehan asks, sitting down next to Courfeyrac.

“The Enjolras v. Grantaire smack down of twenty sixteen,” Courfeyrac exclaims animatedly, smacking his fists together and making an explosion with his hands, sound effects included.  

“Oh I know,” Jehan puffs his bottom lip out at Grantaire, “I hate it when mom and dad fight.”

Courfeyrac and Combeferre exchange knowing looks with each other that Grantaire considers questioning, but decides against it in favor of entertaining Jehan.

“Son, you know we both love you very much.” He reaches diagonally across the table to take Jehan’s hand, “Your mom and I are fine.”

“You lot are strange,” Enjolras says from behind Grantaire. He turns to see Enjolras holding his tray with a scrunched face. He fights the smile that breaks on his face, realizing that Enjolras is technically speaking to him again.

Enjolras takes a seat next to Grantaire at the end of the table since he was the last to make it there. Musichetta, Marius, and Cosette all have 3rd lunch, which means the ten-seat long table fits them perfectly.

Grantaire reaches into his bag and hands Enjolras his banana.

If he were only slightly more melodramatic he’d consider it a peace offering.

Enjolras rolls his eyes in a, what Grantaire will choose to interpret, endearing manner. “Thanks.”

 

 

 

They have meetings every Tuesday night in some hole in the wall coffee shop two blocks away from their school. The club, co-started by Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac in freshman year consists mainly of their group of friends, but over time has increased to the point where Bahorel’s living room can no longer comfortably accommodate each member of Les Amis- a feat that Grantaire distinctly remembers made Enjolras tear up at in tenth grade.

The move to the Musain was the next logical choice as most everyone lived a short distance away from the school and since Musichetta’s aunt owned the place, they got to push all the sofas and chairs together every Tuesday evening without much complaint.

Some nights, they’d discuss important issues in the world and Grantaire would have to hold back his groan at the cheerful optimism in the room. Sometimes he didn’t though, and it’d end with he and Enjolras going back and forth until Combeferre would cough and suggest that they should move on.

Other nights it’s less serious, mostly when they’re in between topics, or when Enjolras’ other school obligations overlap and he comes shuffling in forty minutes late. They tend to play cards, sit and talk, or play other random games on nights like these.

It’s something Grantaire can’t help but smile at as he watches Bahorel and Feuilly wrestle each other after a round of presidents, which ended in Bahorel losing his spot as President because Feuilly would not stop skipping him.

Bahorel who currently has Feuilly in a headlock has gathered most of the group's attention. “You absolute _jackass_ ,” he exclaims and rubs his knuckles into the others scalp, “I trusted you! You were my VP. How could you?”

Their weird group has somehow morphed into a safe haven for other misfits, and it's moments like these, where he hears a discreet conversation over the commotion between Jehan and some skittish freshman on how Jehan realized that he wasn’t straight, where Grantaire doesn’t think this group is a total complete waste of time.

The door chimes open, and eyes follow the sound as Enjolras walks through the door drenched in water. Grantaire hadn’t even noticed it’d been raining.

Enjolras sheds his windbreaker and sags into the nearest couch that happens to be next to Marius. His arms are showing in his thin cross country tank top and there are goose bumps along them as he desperately tries to rake back his wet hair which now, from the rain, is a dirty blonde and forming ringlets. He’s not exactly muscular, but he’s filled out from last year thanks to that one brief swimming stint.

It’s a nice look, Grantaire thinks distantly.

“How was running practice today?” Marius tries making conversation.

The look he gets from Enjolras in return makes Grantaire cough to cover his chuckle.

Enjolras eyes land on him then, before quickly looking away.

Oh right.

Enjolras still hates him.

The thought makes Grantaire’s stomach drop. Although he will be the first to admit he loves the thrill that comes with riling Enjolras up, he’s never meant to actually make him mad.

He remembers the last time he’d truly pissed Enjolras off. In tenth grade, Les Amis all took turns at a donation table outside of lunch. Grantaire didn’t show up for his shift and all of the money they raised got stolen by some bumfuck. He remembers Enjolras calling him an “asshole who’s never cared about anyone or anything in his entire life” and as he’d so tastefully put it, “Utterly and completely useless.”

He also remembers getting high out of his mind that night and pathetically crying to Paul Simon in the back of his mom’s Toyota 4Runner.

He’s drawn out of his thoughts when Courfeyrac makes him and Éponine join in the card game to replace Bahorel and Feuilly due to the fact that they are in “time out” until further notice as decreed by Joly and Combeferre.

Enjolras watches the game from his place on the couch and comments on how the game is a great metaphor of the social constructs of today. “It really shows class struggle and just how hard it is to move up in society.”

“We know,” Chetta groans from her place on the floor with three cards left.

Éponine deadpans, “It’s only like the eight-hundredth time you’ve told us.”

“Yeah, you’re killing the vibe, Enj.” Courfeyrac pouts before he slams down his last card. “Not prostitute, ha!”

From his spot on the floor where he can conveniently pretend he’s not indiscreetly staring at Enjolras, he watches as he gets up from the couch to place an order up front.

“Marius take my spot, would you?” He holds out his cards and makes his way over to where Enjolras is waiting in the short buffer line for his drink.

“Hey,” he greets lamely.

Enjolras turns and pulls a face, “Hi, Grantaire.”

“Bit late for coffee isn’t it?” He glances at the clock on the wall, it ticks 8:47.

“Oh, I’m going to be up all night.” He says looking back toward the counter to see if his orders ready yet, “I haven’t even started editing the rough draft for that history paper yet.”

“The one due next Friday?”

“Yeah.” He slouches, “Have you started?”

Grantaire doesn’t bother answering that, just fixes him with a look that says, ‘does it look like I’ve started’.

“Right.” Enjolras nods.

“Are you still mad at me?” Grantaire blurts out before his mind has time to stop him. He watches Enjolras’ face contort in confusion.

He takes a deep breath before sighing. Grantaire braces himself for a speech.

“No. I’m not mad at you anymore, Grantaire.” He explains tactfully, “I fully support your nefarious plans to take over the school and inevitably run it all to the ground.”

“Thank you.” He replies mock-seriously. “That’s really all I ask.”

Enjolras shakes his head and turns back toward the counter.

When he returns to his spot on the floor, Marius hands him back his cards with a sheepish smile and a mumbled “Sorry.”

How he went from VP to prostitute in the span of two minutes is beyond him, but when he watches Enjolras from the corner of the room, who’s animatedly deep in conversation with Combeferre, he finds himself thinking ‘worth it’.

As he’s just about to look away and focus on at least becoming citizen in the next round, Enjolras glances over towards him before promptly looking back at Combeferre. There’s a small smile on Enjolras’ face as he tries to play it off.

“R,” Éponine snaps and pulls him back to reality, “ _dude_ , it’s your turn.”

Yep.

Totally worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) WELL FUCK! I completely forgot about this fic tbh, I’d had half of it written and then college happened and well yeah u know the rest. This chapter was really hard to finish writing tbh and is basically a big filler but plots coming I promise!!! Thanks for sticking with me yall lmao
> 
> 2) Also I realized I didn’t address much about the setting so for clarification this is 500% American mainly due to the fact that I have no idea how other types of secondary schools work or about their class president systems? (if they even have one, idk?)
> 
> 3) My old high schools elections take place during the summer to fall months but for the sake of this fic im going to say (September to October) 
> 
> 4) And for those of you who don’t know what presidents is, its basically the best card game ever. It’s usually played with 5 to 6 people. The whole premise of the game is to get rid of your cards first, sort of like uno, and whoever is out first is the president. The next person out is VP, third is neutral, fourth is neutral, fifth is citizen, and sixth is prostitute. Once roles from the first round are set the last place players of the last round, (citizen or prostitute) have to give their highest card (if you’re the citizen) to the VP and their two highest cards (if you’re the prostitute) to the President, and they in exchange give you whatever cards they want to. It’s really hard to move up positions in the game unless you’re lucky and get a super good hand or just know how to play the game very well. I can just imagine Enjolras being Very bad at it (they’ve renamed the prostitute to the enjolras bc hes always it) and explaining how good of a metaphor it is for society (mainly because it is and partially to justify why he’s always last) and the rest of Les amis being like '… stfu' because he says it all the time (...which is something I definitely 100% do not do whenever I play…..)
> 
> 5) thanks so much for reading!!!! As always u can find me at courfeyrockets.tumblr.com , say hi or something yep yep yep

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is severely under beta'd so if there's any huge grammatical errors (i'm sure there are) let me know! 
> 
> comments and suggestions are greatly appreciated
> 
> this is my first fic for les mis (and in general haha). i love the idea of enjolras taking the class president elections way too seriously. 
> 
> you can find me on tumblr at courfeyrockets.tumblr.com


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